Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Valentina Baden took another sip of her perfectly made espresso and leaned back in her chair contentedly. She adored Cabo San Lucas, adored their villa here, with its private whitewashed balcony off the master bedroom with views over the formal gardens and tennis courts and then out to the clear, azure-blue sea. Before Willie bought the LA Rams, they used to come down to Cabo a lot. But ever since his obsession with that godforsaken football team, getting Willie out of Los Angeles had been like trying to pry a barnacle off the keel of a rusty boat.

And it wasn’t only the Rams that had been keeping him homebound. There was the girl too, Lisa, the ridiculous brunette tramp Willie had been running around with for the past eight years, mooning after her pathetically like a lost puppy.

Not any more, though, Valentina smiled smugly. The girl was gone. Good riddance.

Truth be told, Willie and his young mistress had been on the outs anyway. Even before Lisa Flannagan’s untimely demise, Willie had started suggesting that he and Valentina spend more time together in Mexico. ‘We should head down to the villa before the hoi polloi descend,’ Willie had told Valentina over dinner last month, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Spend a few weeks in Cabo. Maybe more, depending on business.’ Apparently, Willie had some property deal brewing down in Punta Mita and another in Mexico City, Valentina’s hometown. His plan was to travel for work during the weeks and head back to Cabo at weekends.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, darling?’ he purred at his wife. ‘The whole summer in Mexico?’

Valentina replied that she would like it, very much. And she had liked it, despite the unexpected irritation of the paparazzi following her around like a swarm of flies ever since Lisa Flannagan inconveniently went and got herself murdered and the news broke that the dead model had been Willie’s latest lover.

Valentina had read the details of Lisa’s grisly death and the meager ‘facts’ the press had been able to glean about her relationship with Willie, but the Badens hadn’t discussed the matter between themselves at all. The time had long since passed when Valentina cared a fig about Willie’s extra-marital activities. Indeed, if some girl was willing to sleep with him for a few paltry gifts of jewelry and a cheap condo on the wrong side of Beverly Hills, the way Valentina saw it they were doing her a favor, keeping the revolting old toad out of her bed and allowing her to enjoy her lavish lifestyle – not to mention her own freedom – in peace.

The one part of the whole episode that troubled her was that the Los Angeles police had asked to speak with her, as well as Willie, about the murder investigation ‘as soon as possible’, even going so far as to request her immediate return to the States, a request Valentina Baden had no intention of granting. She had no desire to speak to the police about Willie’s murdered whore, or anything else for that matter. In her bitter experience, the police were no help at all when you needed them, but when they needed you they were prepared to harass you at the drop of a hat.

Draining her coffee cup, Valentina picked up the binoculars Willie kept on the balcony for birdwatching and trained them on her beloved spouse, down on the tennis court with his new young coach, Guillermo. The two of them made a ridiculous pair, Guillermo tall and young and athletic, exactly Valentina’s type, his broad shoulders rippling beneath his tennis whites and his thick dark hair blowing in the breeze as he moved gazelle-like across the court. And on the other side of the net, Willie, short, fat and bald as a coot, mimicking the young coach’s movements, his frail, liver-spotted limbs performing a grotesque parody of Guillermo’s effortless forehand.

He is old and disgusting, Valentina thought, sweating like a pig ready for the slaughterhouse.

But, she had to admit, Willie had kept his side of the bargain. Valentina’s credit cards were limitless. Willie made generous, annual donations to her pet charity, Missing, without ever delving deeper into their ‘work’. Just like Valentina’s poor, long-lost sister María, Willie could be gratifyingly trusting when it mattered most. Plus, he rarely made demands on her, either sexually or socially, the way that Richard, her last husband, used to do. On top of all that, until now anyway, he had kept his affairs low-key and discreet.

If only the stupid girl, Lisa, had kept her mouth shut, instead of bragging to all and sundry about her trysts with Willie, she might well be alive today. She’d even gone and poured her heart out to a therapist, the strikingly photogenic Dr Nicola Roberts. As it was, it was Lisa Flannagan who’d become the slaughtered pig, while Willie, her ancient lover, lived to sweat and wheeze his arthritic, self-centered way through another day.

Ah well. We all make our sacrifices, I suppose, Valentina Baden thought wryly. Our deals with the devil.

She only hoped that at some point Willie’s mood would improve, ideally before they both had to face the music and head back to LA.

Down on the tennis court, Willie Baden mopped his brow and glared bad-temperedly at his coach.

‘That last point was in,’ he snarled, doubled over and panting with exertion.

‘If you say so, sir,’ the boy, Guillermo, replied indulgently.

Patronizing asshole, thought Willie. Guillermo was a talented coach but he practically shone with the arrogance of youth. Willie’s players on the Rams were the same, most of them. Arrogant. Lisa had been arrogant too. Narcissistic little slut, may she rot in hell. She’d actually believed she could switch Willie off like a light when she grew tired of him, throw him out like a discarded toy. But it was Lisa who’d ended up discarded, tossed onto the side of the freeway like a rag doll. And now he, Willie, was paying the price for that too, being chased by photographers everywhere he went and having his good name dragged through the mud. It was a headache he could have done without.

‘Willie!’

Glen Foman, Willie’s attorney, was waving at him from the sideline.

‘We need to talk!’ Glen shouted. ‘Can you take a break?’

Wordlessly, Willie handed Guillermo his racket and stalked off the court.

‘What is it now?’ he barked at Glen, unscrewing his water bottle and taking a long, shaky gulp.

‘I’ve finished wording our statement,’ said the attorney, unfazed by his client’s rudeness. ‘You need to take a look. Then I think we should fly back to LA tomorrow and go to the police voluntarily.’

Willie shook his head.

‘You give them the prepared speech,’ said Glen, ignoring him. ‘Let the media take pictures, let me handle any questions—’

‘We can’t leave tomorrow,’ Willie interrupted him. Glen Foman followed his client’s gaze up to the balcony of the villa’s master bedroom, where Willie’s wife sat reading the newspaper, as cool and calm as Lady Macbeth. He’s scared of her, Glen thought. Even with a possible murder charge hanging over him, he’s too afraid to cross Valentina.

‘Mrs Baden wouldn’t need to come,’ Glen reassured him. ‘It would only be you and me. We could turn around and be back here within twenty-four hours.’

‘No,’ said Willie. ‘The cops want to speak to her too.’

‘Since when?’ Glen frowned. ‘Willie, you need to tell me these things. I’m your lawyer. What do they want to talk to your wife about?’

‘How the hell should I know?’ Willie barked. ‘Anyway it’s not just Valentina. I have business here, in Mexico City. Important business, with people who don’t like to be let down.’

‘Well, business can wait,’ Glen said bluntly. ‘You need to give the police something, Willie. Hiding out here makes you look guilty.’

Willie’s eyes darted nervously from his lawyer, to the master bedroom balcony, to the ground at his feet. He’s like a trapped rat, thought Glen. Was it only his wife he was afraid of? Or something else? If Willie Baden hadn’t been such a thoroughly unpleasant man, Glen might have felt sorry for him.

Willie looked up at his attorney mournfully. ‘I just want this to end.’

‘Then end it.’

‘It’s not that simple.’ Willie rubbed his temples. ‘Like I said, my business associates here are people you don’t want to cross.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Glen, raising a hand. ‘I don’t need to know. One problem at a time, OK, Willie? Because your girlfriend’s murder is a big problem for you right now, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I’ve been reading in the press about this therapist woman, Roberts,’ said Willie. ‘Evidently, Lisa was talking to her. Do you think …?’

‘It’s all handled,’ Glen assured him. ‘I’m on this shit, Willie, OK? You need to trust me. But you also need to follow my advice. Go back – with your wife, if the cops have asked to see her. Give the statement I’ve written, no more, no less. Be seen to be cooperating.’

Willie hesitated. His rheumy old eyes looked up again to the house, but Valentina had gone back inside.

‘Do you want me to talk to Mrs Baden?’ Glen offered.

‘No,’ said Willie. ‘I’ll do it. But whatever happens, we need to be back here by Friday. This business in Mexico City is more important than you realize, Glen.’

‘By Friday,’ the attorney nodded. ‘You have my word. Now go pack.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Tell me please, Mrs Roberts. How long did you take off work after your husband passed away?’

Beneath the interview room table, Nikki dug her fingernails hard into her palms and counted to ten. I must not let this man get under my skin. I must not let him provoke me. That’s giving him what he wants.

‘Again, Detective Johnson, it’s Doctor Roberts.’ She used her softest, most patronizing tone to correct him. ‘You seem to be having a tough time remembering that. Have you always had trouble with your memory? Or is it something age-related?’

Johnson’s jowly face reddened to an ugly puce as his partner suppressed a giggle. Unlike Dr Roberts, Goodman noticed, Johnson showed no self-control when provoked, rising to Nikki’s bait like a starving fish.

‘Oh, I’m not having a tough time remembering anything, lady. I merely choose not to dignify your bullshit profession with a title that actually means something to some people. We both know you aren’t a real doctor.’

Mick looks like an overcooked hotdog about to burst out of its skin, Goodman thought, wincing at his partner’s crassness. Johnson had issues around women in general, but for some reason this particular woman seemed to bring out the absolute worst in him.

Goodman couldn’t understand why. In his opinion, Dr Roberts was looking particularly beautiful this afternoon, in a taupe pencil skirt and matching silk shirt. The outfit was the same color as her tanned skin, giving an exciting, if fleeting, impression of nakedness. Her calm, collected manner was attractive as well, at least in Lou Goodman’s eyes. He liked a woman who could handle herself.

‘Answer the question. How long were you off work?’ Johnson snapped.

‘Around six weeks,’ said Nikki.

‘Seems a long time.’

‘Does it?’ Nikki deadpanned.

‘Yeah, it does. Then again, most of us need to work to live. Unlike you. You just dabble as and when you please, don’t you, Mrs Roberts? You had no money problems after your husband died. He left you a wealthy woman.’

Despite herself, Nikki stiffened. What was this bozo implying?

‘I was perfectly well off when Doug was alive, Mr Johnson. His death didn’t change anything.’

‘Hmmm,’ Johnson grunted dismissively. ‘And when did Treyvon Raymond start working for you?’

Nikki sighed sadly. She hadn’t had time yet to process the reality of Trey’s death, and she certainly didn’t relish talking about him with this slob of a policeman.

‘I don’t remember exactly.’

‘Was it after you came back to work, or before your husband’s accident?’

‘It was not long after,’ said Nikki. Turning to Goodman she added, ‘I don’t understand what any of these questions have to do with the murders. Shouldn’t you be out there trying to find who killed Lisa and Trey, instead of grilling me about employment dates?’

‘That’s exactly what we are trying to do. Find the killer,’ snapped Johnson. ‘Working on the theory that it’s the same perpetrator, first thing we need is a link between the two victims. And guess what? We have one.’ Leaning back in his chair, he jabbed a pudgy finger at Nikki. ‘You, Doctor Roberts.’

‘You think I killed Lisa? And Trey?’

Nikki addressed the question to Johnson, who’d already opened his fat lips to respond when Goodman jumped in, cutting him off.

‘Of course not,’ he said evenly. ‘But you are a link. A common factor, if you will. There’s a good possibility, a likelihood even, that this killer has some connection to you personally or to this practice. A former patient, perhaps? Or even a current one? In your line of work, you obviously come across some deeply disturbed people. Might one of them have become obsessed with you and those around you? Perhaps violently so?’

Nikki conceded it was possible, theoretically. But nobody leapt to mind. Unlike many of her colleagues and peers, she’d never had a patient attack her, although one or two had probably formed unhealthy romantic attachments. Fantasies about one’s therapist were incredibly common. Rarely, if ever, did they result in two mutilated corpses and a homicide investigation.

‘We’re going to need your patient records, past and present,’ Goodman informed her gently.

‘Right,’ Nikki muttered, lost in thought for a moment.

‘All of them,’ Johnson added aggressively. ‘No editing. And no “doctor–patient confidentiality” bullshit either.’

‘Although it may not be a patient,’ Goodman said quickly, before things descended into a slanging match between his partner and their most crucial witness. ‘Do you have any enemies you can think of, Doctor? Anyone who might want to hurt you or people close to you?’

‘No.’ Nikki rubbed her eyes, like someone trying to wake up from a bad dream. ‘No. I really can’t. I mean, that’s ridiculous. What sort of enemies?’

‘Former lovers?’ Goodman proposed tentatively.

Nikki shook her head, not offended but firm.

‘No. There was only ever my husband.’

‘Disgruntled business associates?’

‘No!’ she said, frowning. ‘No offense, Detective, but someone’s out there torturing people to death with a hunting knife. That’s not a business deal gone wrong. That’s a psychopath.’

‘Who said it was a hunting knife?’ Johnson, who’d sat quiet as a mouse since Goodman cut him off suddenly came back to life.

Nikki hesitated for a moment.

‘I don’t know,’ she said eventually. ‘You must have, I suppose. Or maybe I heard it on the news.’

Johnson looked knowingly at Goodman but said nothing.

Goodman continued with his good-cop routine, asking Nikki more questions about her relationship with Trey Raymond. She answered confidently and naturally, explaining how first Doug and Haddon, and then she, had taken the boy under their wing. And how proud they all were of the way Trey had turned his life around.

‘Especially Doug,’ Nikki added, tears stinging her eyes for the first time since Haddon had broken the awful news of Trey’s death. ‘We couldn’t have children, you see, my husband and I.’

Goodman’s kind blue eyes seemed to invite confidences. Nikki appeared to have forgotten Johnson was even in the room.

‘I think Doug looked on Trey as a surrogate son. After Doug— When he died, I tried to keep the connection going. That’s when I offered Trey the job here, in the office. He was good at it,’ she added, with a sad smile.

‘OK,’ said Goodman. ‘Thank you, Dr Roberts. I think that’s all we need for now.’

‘Don’t leave town,’ snarled Johnson, as Nikki slipped on her coat.

She didn’t dignify the comment with a look, let alone a response.

‘One last thing,’ Goodman said casually, walking Nikki to the interview room door. ‘Did you ever treat a client by the name of Brandon Grolsch?’

‘No.’ Nikki looked blank. Not a hint of recognition. ‘I don’t know that name.’

‘OK.’ Goodman smiled, masking his disappointment. Both men were disappointed. A direct link between Nikki Roberts and Brandon Grolsch would have helped a lot right now, especially since Jenny Foyle, the Medical Examiner, had texted Johnson earlier to confirm that two hairs found embedded in one of Trey Raymond’s many wounds was a DNA match for Grolsch. The way Johnson saw it, that meant either the kid was alive after all; or – more disturbingly, but a closer fit to the evidence – whoever murdered Lisa Flannagan and Trey Raymond had also handled Brandon Grolsch’s corpse.